“Who did that?” Dexter asks as his wild eyes dart between my wrist and my face. “Who marked you?”
I hide my hand under the tablecloth when he abruptly stands from his chair. Wood scraping across marble floors sounds through my ears when he pushes back from the table like a man in a hurry. I don’t know where he is rushing to, but he won’t get far if he continuously paces the same three steps.
Several minutes pass with him wearing a hole in the carpet before his eyes return to mine. They are even more desolate than normal. “Was it someone at the hotel? Did someone here hurt you?”
He stops shoving his fingers through his hair when I nod. “Who?” His one word is delivered so violently, it sounds like an entire sentence. “Was it the bellhop? Concierge? Who?”
He whispers threats under his breath, promising harm to the person responsible for my injuries. He is going to cut them, then castrate them before smashing their teeth in with his bare hands.
His pledge of protection excites me. . . until I realize who they are directed at.
I drop my eyes to my plate, ensuring he can’t see my eyes. With Dexter so caught up on plotting the demise of the person responsible for my bruise, he leaves me undisturbed for several long minutes.
I want to say I use the time well. Unfortunately, that isn’t the case. My stomach is too twisted up to do anything. Even more so when Dexter places his hand under my chin to raise my downcast head two seconds later.
“Who hurt you. . .?” His words trail off when he spots the dishonesty in my eyes. He releases a growl so deep, two towns over hear it. “Don’t lie to me, Megan.”
When I remain quiet, he raises his hand, as if he is going to hit me. I know it is a ploy to force me to answer him, but it frightens me so much, I start humming a tune before I can stop myself.
Dexter’s hand falls from the air like a bomb, the joyful lullaby weighing down his arm as if it is made of concrete. He takes a step back, equally sickened and remorseful. “I hurt you?Me?”
His throats works hard to swallow when I hesitantly nod. I don’t want to hurt him, but I also don’t want to discover the repercussions if I lie to him.
It takes a few seconds for Dexter to read the honesty in my eyes. When he does, he goes into a violent rage. Dishware clatters to the ground as a painful roar erupts from his mouth. “You lied! You’re a liar!” He shreds the dining room apart, not the least bit concerned he is damaging the hotel’s property .
I understand his quest. I underwent the same form of therapy when I discovered Nick’s son was born healthy. I spiked his fiancée’s tea with so much mistropol, she should have bled out on the table. I was so angry at Jenni and Nick, I took out my fury on their unborn son.
What I did was wrong. Nick’s son didn’t deserve the brunt of my fury.
Dexter shouldn’t forget the effects of his childhood, either. I’m not a shrink, but I’ve spent enough time with them to analyze that Dexter’s condition is a result of his childhood. From his reaction to a lullaby, it may have even started when he was a baby—perhaps even in the womb.
It’s not absurd to think this way. Some people are born to lead; others are born like us.
We’re not broken; we’re unique.
I wait for Dexter’s outrage to subdue before standing from my chair. His violence touched every inch of the dining room, leaving only the chair I was sitting in unscathed.
He balks when I remove his hands from his face so I can crawl into his lap. Because of the difference in our heights and frames, it isn’t a hard feat. It’s just foreign. I’ve never wanted to nurture someone as much as I do him. My daddy said I am like my mom, that I don’t have an empathetic bone in my body. Dexter proves he was a liar. I care about him so much, I’ll do anything to stop his pain.
Anything at all.
Dexter’s heart pounds my ear when I nuzzle into his chest. It’s so furious I’m afraid it will burst my eardrum. Its frantic pace adds to the danger looming in the air, but in a calm, nurturing way. I know he’ll never hurt me. The way he left me unscathed during his violent uproar proves this without a doubt.
I don’t care what the doctors’ diagnosis is. I know the truth. Dexter is my protector. My lover. The man slowly reviving my veins with blood. It might be a little murky, but it is still lifesaving blood all the same. He will take care of me, and I will do the same for him.
Dexter’s tormented eyes bounce between mine when I raise my hand to his face to remove the strands of hair stuck to his temples. After clearing them away, I glide my fingers down his cheeks and across his plump lips. I comfort him without the lullaby I used last night, finally recognizing the tune is partly to blame for his psychotic break.
I caress him for what feels like hours but is more minutes. Just when I think he will never return my affections, his hand traces the bumps of my spine. He draws me closer to him with every contusion he glides past. His silence should be off-putting, but it isn’t. He doesn’t need to express gratitude for my comfort. I would do it even if he requested that I stop.
It is what a woman does for the man she loves.
